


An Indirect Approach

by patster223



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Five Times, M/M, Pining, Secret Samol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 09:00:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13143354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patster223/pseuds/patster223
Summary: Throndir is Kindrali’s chosen, a steward of forgotten knowledge. It would be irresponsible of him to use his gift to get relationship advice...Right?Five times Throndir tried to use Kindrali's memories to get closer to Red Jack. Written for @elestaus for the 2017 Secret Samol.





	An Indirect Approach

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elestaus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elestaus/gifts).



> Written for elestaus' Secret Samol prompt "throndir consults kindrali for advice on how to get closer to red jack, since the two of them apparently knew each other back in the day." Hope you enjoy it and have a happy new year!

 

**1.  
**

When the word eater’s knowledge washed over Throndir and bestowed upon him the memories of an ancient god, he knew that he was being given a responsibility. Throndir is Kindrali’s _chosen_ , a steward of forgotten knowledge. So far, Throndir has only used that knowledge in order to help people, and he’s proud of that.

It would be irresponsible of him to use his gift to get relationship advice.

“Throndir! Lend me a hand.”

Red Jack’s voice echoes across the courtyard of the Last University. Some refugees still startle at the sound, while others simply go about their business, the booming laughter of Red Jack just another part of their lives now.

Throndir falls into a third category that is very similar to the second. Red Jack’s laughter _is_ just a part of his life now, yes, but not because it’s become background noise. Rather, it’s because he can no longer imagine living without it.

“Throndir!”

Throndir shakes his head and catches up to Red Jack. The oni carries a pallet of construction materials on each arm, and he deposits some wood into Throndir’s hands with a grunt of thanks.

“Did that really lighten the load for you much?” Throndir says, trying not to ogle Red Jack’s arms. They shine with sweat on this warm spring day, but the muscles are hardly straining for their efforts.

“Nah,” Red Jack says, with a grin made of crooked teeth. “But I wanted company while I worked.”

Throndir is eager to provide that much—ever since their disastrous conversation at Old Man’s Chin, he has always been eager to provide Red Jack with what comfort he can.

As Red Jack starts talking to him, it becomes obvious to Throndir, that—regardless of whether it’s a good decision—he is going to use Kindrali’s memories to get some guidance here. After all, Kindrali _knew_ Red Jack. And, well…

It’s not like Throndir has any other options. He grew up as an outcast in the middle of nowhere, who then decided to change his life by hanging out with other outcasts in different middles of nowhere—he doesn’t exactly have a lot of dating experience to draw from.

He _could_ ask someone for advice, but the only person in a stable relationship whom he knows is Rosanna, and she’s not exactly _keen_ on him right now. Though, even if he could ask Rosanna for help, Throndir’s not sure he should be using her relationship as an example—given that she’s here while her husband is currently hundreds of miles underground. 

Throndir groans. Life has gotten really weird lately.

Red Jack raises an eyebrow at him, and Throndir evades further scrutiny by asking Red Jack a  question about the story he’s been telling him. It’s enough to make Red Jack continue, his voice echoing again as he narrates a triumphant story that twists at Throndir’s heart.

Well. Maybe it’s not just the story that’s doing that.

When Throndir finally manages to slip away, he retreats to his room and sits heavily on his bed.

Kodiak barks. _You’ve got it bad._

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Throndir says. He scratches Kodiak behind the ears.

_Are you going to do something about it, or…?_

“I’m…” Throndir is blushing while talking to his dog. Life has gotten _really_ weird. “I’m taking it slow.”

Kodiak’s bark is skeptical, and, for that, Throndir can’t blame him. Normally, Throndir doesn’t care to do _anything_ slowly. Even before he became a vampire, his blood hummed in his veins at a breakneck pace, his heart urging him to go _faster, faster, faster_ as he plummeted toward everything he’s ever done: leave home, try new food, protect his friends, join the Lance…fall in love.

But for all that that is true, Throndir also remembers Old Man’s Chin. He remembers plummeting toward Red Jack and finding nothing there to break his fall when Red Jack stepped away.

It was only a crush, then, so it hadn’t hurt so badly—but still. Throndir never regrets going as fast as he does, but he also knows from first-hand experience that his method of doing things doesn’t always work out.

But maybe, with Kindrali’s help, they can. Throndir closes his eyes. It’s easy to let his thoughts drift toward Red Jack: the size of him, the way his laugh commands the attention of any room, his smile—

_There is ferocity in that smile, a ferocity that holds Kindrali’s gaze as if he were bound to it. Hundreds of creatures are here to celebrate High Sun Day, and yet Kindrali cannot look away from this one. Across the ballroom, the man with the red skin spots him staring and bares his teeth in a grin that leaves Kindrali’s skin hot—_

The vision flashes and then _they’re dancing, Kindrali and the grinning man who introduces himself as Red Jack. Red Jack’s canines glint in the candlelight as he leads Kindrali with confident steps. Red Jack pulls him close to his chest and Kindrali smells woodsmoke and mulled cider and sweat and horse hair. All of the smells run together until Kindrali is reminded of the crackling tension in the air on days when the weather teeters treacherously between summer and autumn—_

Throndir opens his eyes. He’s breathing shallowly, overcome with the memory of Red Jack’s smell, the warmth of his arms against Kindrali’s back, the hum of his voice murmuring in Kindrali’s ears…Kindrali’s visions are never concrete, but this one was clouded with passion, leaving it—ah, _interesting,_ certainly, but not particularly useful.

In fact, the memory turns out to be a hazard more than anything else. After that day, Throndir finds his gaze lingering obviously on Red Jack’s arms. Because now—even though he’s never danced with Red Jack—Throndir can _remember_ what those arms feel like: how firm their embrace is.

“What is it?” Red Jack asks, after catching Throndir in the act of looking.

“I, uh…” Throndir’s face burns, but instead of making up an excuse, he blurts out, “You dance?”

Red Jack lets out a big laugh and Throndir’s face burns even hotter. He can _remember_ how that laugh felt against Kindrali’s chest.

“Would you like me to show you?” Red Jack asks, offering a hand.

“Uh, yeah, sure. Yeah.”

Centuries have passed since Red Jack waltzed with Kindrali, but his dancing hasn’t changed. He still moves with large, sudden steps that sweep Throndir off his feet— _literally._ Red Jack’s hands squeeze his sides, lift him into the air, and—just like that—scatter Throndir’s thoughts to the wind.

That’s okay. Throndir doesn’t need thought to do this: only memory. Kindrali’s movements echo in Throndir’s body and it is so easy to move with them, to step and glide with a rhythm established centuries ago. Throndir smells woodsmoke, cider, and sweat, and knows that he has never been so close to Red Jack’s scent before—and yet, at the same time, he last smelled it only hundreds of years ago.

“Thank you.”

Throndir is suddenly on the ground again. His legs feel weirdly heavy after having been propped up by Red Jack for so many minutes.

“For what?” Throndir asks.

Red Jack places a warm, steadying hand on his shoulders. “Those are good times to remember. There were good dances to be had then—and bad ones as well, ah ha ha. Did I ever tell you about the orc god who refused to dance with me after I nearly trampled them with Ace? Of course, back then...”

He launches into another fantastical story, and it’s easy for Throndir to listen and nod along. His mind—still stuttering between the past and the present—swims too much for him to do anything else. But Throndir doesn’t mind. He can admit that this feels nice too: the slow pace of their walk as Red Jack tells Throndir his story.

 

 

**2.  
**

That first Kindrali vision—while enjoyable—doesn’t clarify much for Throndir. If anything, he feels even _more_ confused. That’ll happen, when you find out that your current god once had a romantic fling with your current crush.

Now would probably be the time for Thonrdir to give up on the Kindrali approach. But Throndir is a fool in love and—even worse—he’s a _curious_ fool in love. He can’t help but continue to think about Red Jack, to worry at his thoughts of him like a loose tooth until he feels the tugging of Kindrali at the back of his mind…

_When Red Jack lifts Kindrali into the air, Kindrali automatically shifts his weight to accommodate Red Jack’s hold. Ever since their dance, this has become a habit of Red Jack’s: one that Kindrali has done nothing substantial to discourage._

_“I’m not a set of weights for you to exercise with,” Kindrali says half-heartedly. He doesn’t bother to hide his grin when Red Jack lifts him above his head and begins doing squats._

_“Of course not,” Red Jack says. “You’re far better company.”_

_Red Jack’s laugh is more restrained when he is lifting a six-hundred pound creature, but Kindrali can still feel it through Red Jack’s hands. He cannot help but laugh too, even as it nearly topples him out of Red Jack’s grip._

“Throndir?”

Throndir bangs his knee against the table as he suddenly comes back to awareness. The pain, at least, makes the transition from memory to reality a smoother one this time.

The mental transition, anyway. Socially, it’s…

Well, Ephrim is staring at Throndir from across the table, so it could definitely be _better._

“So,” Ephrim drawls, resting his chin on one hand. “How’s it going?”

“Fine, fine,” Throndir says, as if he hasn’t been spacing out for the past few minutes. He picks up his spoon to resume eating, even though his soup is probably tepid by now. “Just…thinking.”

“About what?” Ephrim says, smirking as if he already knows full well what the answer is.

Though, judging by how hot Throndir’s ears feel, perhaps it’s not hard to deduce.

“Just…” _Red Jack’s hands on his body, lifting him so fucking **easily**_ , _hefting his weight as if he were nothing._ “Exercise.”

“Exercise…”

“Yeah!” Throndir coughs. “Yeah, uh…you know, there’s a lot of refugees here and not a lot of room for people to walk around or train with weapons. I was thinking, uh, maybe dedicating one of the courtyards to exercise would be good for everyone’s health?”

“That’s…actually a good idea,” Ephrim says. “You should talk to Rosanna about it.”

Ephrim’s gaze wanders as he focuses on something across the mess hall, and he grins. A little more loudly, he says, “I bet Red Jack would be interested in helping too. Wouldn’t you, Red Jack?”

Throndir chokes on his soup. Kodiak whines as Throndir dissolves into a coughing fit: one that is only resolved by Red Jack’s strong— _really fucking strong,_ according to Kindrali—hands patting him on the back.

“What would I be interested in?” Red Jack asks. Though he’s speaking to Ephrim, his eyes don’t leave Throndir until the latter is breathing of his own accord again.

As Ephrim glances between them both, Throndir sighs, already resigning himself to his fate.  Ever since the Arrell affair, Ephrim has held himself with care, with a delicately restrained, righteous anger. Throndir, well--Throndir can certainly relate.

Except, the only exception to Ephrim’s attitude seems to be _Throndir_ , around whom Ephrim has a certain airiness in his tone. It reminds Throndir of how little siblings regard their elders: with a cool admiration that simmers underneath an eager pride. When Ephrim speaks to Throndir, it’s as if to say, _yes, I dissociated while you killed a man, but we saved the day and we’re both here now, aren’t we?_

So Throndir isn’t surprised in the _least_ when Ephrim sells him out by saying, “Throndir was thinking of building an exercise area and was wondering if you would help him.”

Red Jack agrees, _of course,_ and they begin working. It is agonizing, to be this close to Red Jack—to be able to see the sweat on his skin and the dirt on his brow—and yet still not know how to close the remaining distance between them.

But still—Throndir likes this project they’ve taken on. He feels good using his muscles and watching Red Jack use his. He feels good using his skills and his strength to make something new. These are simple pleasures: ones that Throndir hasn’t indulged in much since putting on the Lance badge.

“I’m not sure how intense to make this exercise area,” Throndir admits, studying the ground they’ve cleared. “It’s hard to remember how strong normal people are now that I’m a…you know.”

Red Jack’s gaze openly follows the length of Throndir’s body. It is definitely an appraisal, but not like the ones that Throndir received in Auniq as a young man. Red Jack’s twinkle with curiosity yes, but they lack the coldness that Throndir is used to. Throndir feels warm, pleasant, and attended to under Red Jack’s gaze.

“Have you tested your strength since you turned?” Red Jack asks.

“Not…really. I almost broke my bow once, but other than that…” Throndir shrugs. “I’m not really sure what my new limits are.”

“Think you could lift me?”

The grin on Red Jack’s face is so shameless that Throndir nearly chokes for the second time that week, this time on his own laughter.

“Uh, I kind of doubt that,” Throndir says, giving Red Jack’s body an appraisal of his own. The vision of Red Jack lifting Kindrali flashes in his mind, and he feels his face heat. “You’re kind of huge.”

Red Jack laughs. He holds out one arm and flexes it. “We made this arena for a purpose, didn’t we? Let’s test your strength.”

And, well—how could Throndir refuse an offer like that? He gives a laugh of his own as he jumps and grabs a hold of Red Jack’s outstretched arm. Doing pull-ups isn’t hard, but doing them while also squashing his sexual frustration probably impacts his performance.

But, even though he is close enough to touch, Throndir doesn’t act on that frustration. Red Jack’s behavior hasn’t changed since Old Man’s Chin, and Throndir can’t behave as if it has. There is still work to be done, before he can do anything. The world is ending and they still hardly know each other, and so Throndir still must lift.

 

 

**3.**

  
In the spirit of making tangible progress on the whole Red Jack situation, Throndir decides to give his Kindrali memories a _little_ more direction than _hey, remember that hot oni dude?_

Or, at least, that was the plan. In reality, it is difficult to focus on any one aspect of Red Jack. There is just so _much_ to the man. Trying to pick out any one characteristic only leads to Throndir becoming overwhelmed by the enormity of Red Jack: of his spirit, his body, the years he’s lived.

When the memory finally comes, it comes by accident. Throndir is rubbing his thumb against his Lance badge—a tic that helps him concentrate—and, as he does, the back of his mind goes fuzzy as Kindrali’s memories brush against his own.

Throndir eagerly gives into the memory, and—

_After the fall of Samothes, Kindrali moves to the mainland and Red Jack stays in Marielda. This is fine. After all, the world has changed so drastically since their first dance on High Sun Day, and so have they._

_And yet—decades later—when Red Jack knocks on Kindrali’s door, it’s as if no time has passed at all. He brings with him stories of the Black Slacks, of the exodus of the weavers, and of a strange little marketplace in Marielda._

_Red Jack apparently dragged a man across the street for daring to threaten a kobbin in that marketplace. He tells the story as a parable of sorts—something that is meant to guide Kindrali in mediating the rising tensions between goblins and elves—but Kindrali can only sigh. Has Red Jack learned nothing from watching the rash violence and vengeance of the gods?_

_Still. Jack’s hands may be bloodied, but they are also the ones that held Kindrali while they danced. It feels good to hold them once more._

Throndir hums in thought. The previous times he’d tried this, Kindrali’s emotions—his attraction—had mingled neatly with Throndir’s own. Now, there is cognitive dissonance there. Kindrali’s exasperation sits unevenly atop Throndir’s… _relief_?

It’s an odd emotional reaction, one that Throndir isn’t able to parse until he sees Red Jack next. The two of them are taking inventory of the armory, and—

It’s in the way that Red Jack holds a sword. His grip is loose and sure around the hilt, but his gaze lacks the desperation and longing that Throndir has seen in the eyes of other swordsmen. A sword represents nothing to Red Jack—it is neither a tool for survival nor a means of protecting ideology.

No, Red Jack merely holds a blade as if his target may as well be already impaled upon it: as if its justice already were a certainty in his hands.

And there it is again—that _relief._

“We’re the same, aren’t we?” Throndir realizes aloud.

“Not particularly. I am very red and very tall—you are neither.” Red Jack laughs.

“Hey, it’s not like I’m that short or—well, I guess I am, compared to you. But still. I’m not talking about that. I’m…It’s the way you, you know-” Throndir gestures to the sword. “Someone once told me I should give ‘slow justice’ a try, but...you don’t do slow justice either, do you?”

Red Jack sheathes the sword. “I’ve tried it. I’ve been around a long time, after all—I’ve tried pretty much everything.” He grins. “It didn’t sit well with me: with what I am.”

“Yeah…Me neither.”

“You are a beautiful man, Throndir,” Red Jack says, laughing when Throndir startles at the comment. “But the kind of justice that the Golden Lance seeks—it’s not always beautiful.”

“I know,” Throndir says, his face still pink at Red Jack’s compliment. But then he thinks of how it’d felt to swing his sword at Arrell’s neck—how angry Fero had been afterward, how disappointed Rosanna had been. “It kind of pisses everyone else off too.”

“True justice is usually too quick for most. Though perhaps that makes you wonder whether it’s actually true, hmm?”

“Not really,” Throndir says honestly.

Red Jack laughs and the sound reverberates throughout the tight quarters of the armory.

“Sure in your convictions—I like it,” Red Jack says with another grin. “Me too.”

Throndir can’t help but smile in return, though the feeling of warm comradery quickly sours as he’s reminded of the object of his convictions.

“The work we do here is important,” Throndir sighs. “I know that. But at the end of the day, I can’t help but think…Arrell is still out there.”

Red Jack nods. “I remember you telling me how he took Hadrian’s son.”

“It’s not just that.” Throndir clenches his fist. “He pretended he was my friend, and he kidnapped a bunch of people and put them in bubbles, and…You know what, never mind. It’s a really long and _really_ weird story.”

“Tell me it anyway.”

And honestly? Throndir is thrilled for the excuse to air his Arrell-related grievances. Aside from Ephrim, everyone at the Last University looks distinctly uncomfortable when Throndir starts talking about the guy he wants to kill.

But Red Jack understands— _that_ is what Throndir’s feeling of relief was referring to. Red Jack understands Throndir’s need for justice, his need to vent about fucking wizards who pose as you friend and end up being complete assholes who put people in fucking _bubbles._ Fucking Arrell…

By the end of their conversation, Red Jack looks more vital for having heard the story. Throndir feels energized too, feels hot and happy and angry and _alive_ even though he hasn’t taken any vitality from Red Jack during their conversation.

It’s only when Throndir returns to his room that he realizes that he’d been so busy ranting about Arrell that he’d forgotten to put his Kindrali knowledge to good use with Red Jack. Fuck.

Throndir collapses into his bed and doesn’t move when Kodiak begins licking his ears. Why was killing people so much easier than trying to date them?

 

 

**4.**

  
For all of Throndir’s sixty years of life, he never learned how to slow down. Hell, maybe it’s _because_ of his age that he can’t slow down. Throndir grew up watching his elders age at what felt like a breakneck pace—how could he have done anything else but speed up everything else about himself in response?

Or, maybe it’s just how he is. Either way, it’s not a habit that Throndir cares to break. It’s like Red Jack said—being any other way does not sit well with him.

But _fuck_ , does it get him in trouble sometimes.

Now that Throndir has uncovered a sliver of Red Jack’s past, he wants _more._ Not just slivers and pieces of Red Jack’s past, but _all_ of him. He wants to know how fast Red Jack has gone, the justice he’s seen through, how far he’s gone in order to—

_Kindrali sees Red Jack die. It is somehow worse than even the death of Samothes. That murder at least had an air of design about it. This—Red Jack fighting his own son, the two of them charging against each other with swords and a determined zeal—is just brutal._

_There can only be one Red Jack. Kindrali knows this. And yet, he still finds himself stepping into the fray, hands outstretched to—_

_What? Stop it? What a fool Kindrali is, when Red Jack is around._

_Red hands—Kindrali can’t tell to which Red Jack they belong—push him away from the fight._

_But that moment of distraction is enough for the other Red Jack: a sword meets its target, a last breath is drawn, and—once again—there is only one Red Jack._

When Throndir comes to, he’s curled up on his bed, gasping for breath while Kodiak noses at his face.

“Come on,” Throndir breathes, pushing himself to his feet. “Let’s get some air.”

The two of them jog around the perimeter of the Last University—a long run that normally leaves Throndir’s legs burning, and his thoughts loose and easy. Today, with every lap, Throndir feels himself leaving some of Kindrali’s residual horror behind, until he thinks he can finally make out which emotions are his and which are—

_There can only be one Red Jack._

Throndir freezes in place.

In front of them, a small oni boy stands in the courtyard. He has a sword in his hand and yells as he mock duels with one of the refugee soldiers. _It’s just playing,_ Throndir tries to tell himself. It’s fine, it’s not an actual fight, they’re just _playing,_ except—

Throndir remembers how Red Jack’s kin grew every time they fought at Old Man’s Chin.

“Enough,” Throndir says. He steps in-between the oni child and the soldier. There is a sudden chill in the air, and it is not due to the sun’s setting. Throndir face flushes with heat and vitality, and the soldiers shivers, though he likely knows not why.

“Hey, it’s fine; the boy just wanted to play,” the soldier says. He taps the tip of the sword. “They’re just practice ones, see?”

“He doesn’t need swords to play,” Throndir says. He can hear how dangerous his voice becomes: when he realizes that Red Jack’s kin has grown a whole inch from this fight.

The soldier shrugs, raises his arms up in mock surrender, and walks away.

“You got any other games?” the oni child asks, his hands on his hips. He’s clearly less perturbed by Throndir’s behavior than he is about having his entertainment taken away.

“Yeah,” Throndir sighs. He pulls a rock from behind the kid’s ear, smiling wearily when Red Jack’s kin proceeds to eat it.

Throndir spends a lot of time lost in thought over the next few days. Once again, Kindrali’s vision has left him with more questions than answers. He knows that—if he were to go to anyone for advice—they would probably tell him that now is the time to abandon his infatuation. Yes, it may have been fun while it lasted, but this is _real_ —this is a violent core inside of the man with the nice, booming laughter. And yet…

Throndir does not readily abandon things. He, too, has a violent core. Discovering that this is something that he and Red Jack share does not sow fear in his heart—rather, it leaves a sweet sort of ache that lingers in Throndir’s chest for days after the vision.

“Do you know where Red Jack is?” Throndir asks Ephrim over breakfast. “I need to talk to him.”

“No kidding,” Ephrim says. “Did you guys have a fight or something?”

“What? No, why-”

“I mean, nobody’s seen you together in three days, which I think is unheard of since we got here.”  
  
“We don’t always-”

“You do.” Ephrim raises an eyebrow. “It’s kind of sweet that you think you’ve been taking it slow with him.”

Throndir opens his mouth to argue, but no words come out. He can’t deny that he and Red Jack are together more often than not. Hell, Throndir can’t take one step within the Last University without seeing some building that he and Red Jack repaired and being reminded of a laugh they shared.

“Just—tell me where he is, okay?” Throndir says.

Ephrim shrugs. “He left a few days ago. Think he was going on the latest hunting expedition.”

“He doesn’t normally join those…”

“Maybe he knew that _you_ were avoiding him,” Ephrim says with a pointed glance.

Throndir groans. God, he really is an idiot, isn’t he?

He says as much to Red Jack, when the oni finally returns one evening.

Red Jack only laughs—and, though the sound is softer and more restrained than it usually is, it still fills Throndir with warmth. Whatever tension they’d carried between them over the past few days seems to mostly fizzle out, and Throndir grins.

“How was the hunting expedition?” he asks.

“Good for thought—bad for boredom.” Red Jack, never the type to belabor pleasantries, then asks, “What are you trying to do with these visions of Kindrali and I?”

“Ah.” Throndir winces. “You knew?”

“My kin told me what you did for him—it wasn’t hard to connect the dots. But mostly…” Red Jack’s smile is fond. “I knew Kindrali well. I can feel his air about you, you know. I’m glad that someone found what remained of his words.”

Throndir turns his gaze downward. “Even so…I’m sorry. I didn’t think about whether _you_ would have wanted me to see those memories.”

“You didn’t. But I get the feeling that you don’t think about a lot of things before you do them, eh, Throndir?”

“I do too!—”

“Ah ha ha, it’s not an insult—creatures like us tend to act on instinct.”

Red Jack gives a grin that shows his fangs, and Throndir pokes his tongue at where his own fangs would be, had most vampiric folklore been more than drivel.

“I don’t mind being the subject of your visions, Throndir,” Red Jack says. He places a warm hand on Throndir’s shoulder. “I gave those memories freely to Kindrali, and he gave them freely to you. But I do wonder why you’re taking such an indirect approach.”

“I…The last time I took a direct approach, I scared you off!” Throndir says, his face burning. “I wanted to be more careful this time.”

Red Jack laughs. “It is good to take care. Like I said, I’ve been around for a long time and have tried pretty much everything: including being careful. It’s fine, but…there is a time and place for it, I’ve found.”

Red Jack gestures to their surroundings: to the ruins of the Last University and the towers of the Heat and the Dark that pulse in the distance.

“I take your point,” Throndir sighs. He snorts. “Wow, going slow just _really_ isn’t our thing, huh?”

Red Jack winks. “I’ve tried going slow too, you know.”

Throndir smirks. “And?”

“It has its merits.” Red Jack winks again and laughs as he begins walking back to his quarters. “Goodnight, Throndir.”

“Goodnight, Red Jack,” Throndir says, though he doesn’t try to sleep for quite a while longer. His chest is too filled with a buzzing, electric sort of warmth—as he realizes that he’s finally done with this ‘taking it slow’ nonsense.

 

  
  
**5.  
**

Throndir sits on his bed, closes his eyes, and channels Kindrali one last time. For once, he isn’t doing this to satisfy his curiosity about Red Jack’s physique or his sense of justice or his past or any of that. Learning those things only affirmed what Throndir already knew: that he wants Red Jack.

Now, Throndir wants to know what _Red Jack_ wants—he wants to know what memory of Kindrali’s _Red Jack_ would find most important.

At that thought, Kindrali’s memories shift at the back of Throndir’s mind and—

_The word eaters have already taken the words of the goblins, and now, they are about to take Kindrali’s._

_Red Jack is there, at the end. It is kind of him to be there, but Kindrali knows that he is also there out of a sense of duty: paying Kindrali back for having been present at Red Jack’s own death._

_Red Jack cannot save him, is the thing. The oni is so full of stories and so full of words, but even he cannot stave off the hunger of the word eaters._

_“But there is one thing I can do,” Red Jack says. He squeezes Kindrali’s frail hands with his own. “Instead of giving them your words, give them to me.”_

_Of course Kindrali agrees. He talks and talks until the hunger of the word eaters finally forces Red Jack to retreat—and, even then, Kindrali shouts to Red Jack, yells in order to be heard over the sound of Ace’s hooves. Kindrali shouts until he cannot be heard, until he has stolen as many of his own words as he can from the word eaters: and instead given them to the man with whom he once danced._

Throndir wipes tears from his eyes. And, even though the man is no longer alive, he gives a quick prayer of thanks to Kindrali. Words are the most precious things that creatures like Kindrali and Red Jack can exchange—Throndir is glad that those words still live on, in himself and Red Jack.

If only Throndir could give that same gift to Red Jack. But the thing is, he’s _already_ given Red Jack most of his life story, in bits and pieces on the road to the Last University. That’s what’d started this whole thing to _begin_ with—they’d told each other stories until Throndir had become entranced by the beautiful oni man with the beautiful booming voice.

Throndir stands up. He might not have any more stories of his own, but that doesn’t mean he can’t _find_ more. He _is_ the ranger, after all—he’s good at finding things.

However, books are a difficult thing to find at the end of the world. Most of the Last University’s collection is either in tatters or incomprehensible to anyone who isn’t a student of high-level magic. Even the rare refugee who’d once owned books hadn’t been able to bring them to the Last University. The only person Throndir knows with a book is…

“Ephrim,” Throndir says. “I need to borrow your book of fairy tales.”

“No.” Ephrim turns the page without looking up at Throndir.

“Please, it’s—it’s for Red Jack.”

“Wow, I didn’t know he was such a fan of reading.”

“Don’t be an asshole.”

Ephrim sighs. “I thought you were done with the whole ‘taking it slow’ thing? Giving him a book instead of talking to him doesn’t seem very…headstrong.”

“Gee, thanks.” Throndir gives a sigh of his own. “I _did_ talk to him. But I also want to give him something more than that. For people like Red Jack…giving them stories _is_ a direct approach.”

“You’re lucky I’m sick of you two pining,” Ephrim says, shaking his head. “Fine. I’ll make you a copy. But you’ll have to take my chores so that I have time to make it.”

“ _Deal._ ”

With Throndir taking on some of Ephrim’s work, within a week Throndir is able to march up to Red Jack and triumphantly hold up the book for him to see.

Red Jack raises an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

“A story,” Throndir says. “I want to read this to you, to—to give you these words.”

Red Jack’s face softens, and it’s—it’s _wonderful._ Normally, Red Jack’s face is scrunched up in laughter or anger or thought, and that is beautiful too. But this sight is so rare that Throndir can’t help be awed in response. Red Jack’s face relaxes, and suddenly his open-mouth laugh is exchanged for a deep chuckle; his fanged grin is exchanged for a simple, toothy smile; his forehead wrinkles are exchanged for laugh lines.

And _god,_ it is everything. And, yes, Throndir knows that _everything_ is not technically the opposite of the Heat and the Dark: that would be the stars and their bloated, still acts of creation. But the way that Throndir feels looking at Red Jack—like he’s touching a hot flame, like he’s standing on the precipice of hundreds of years of burning memories and hundreds of years of raw feelings and impulses, and he’s ready to dive right in—still feels like the opposite of nothing.

“Lead the way,” Red Jack says, with a smile that does nothing to ease this wild feeling within Throndir.

Good. Throndir isn’t sure he ever wants that feeling to go away.

Throndir takes them to a grassy clearing near the workout area they’d created. As he sits down, he pulls up some grass, feeling suddenly nervous now that he’s actually doing this.

“I, uh. I’m not that great at reading out loud,” Throndir admits. “Or, I wasn’t the last time I did it. I lost my place a lot and my voice doesn’t like it, and…”

“I’d be just as happy reading to you,” Red Jack offers, “but I also doubt that I could mind your voice, Throndir.”

Throndir flushes. He likes the idea of Red Jack reading to him—a _lot_ —but this is supposed to be his gift to Red Jack. Throndir takes a deep breath, turns the first page, and begins to read.

As it turns out, Throndir _still_ isn’t great at reading out loud—he loses his place multiple times and his voice grows hoarse by the end of the chapter—but Red Jack seems enraptured by the simple act of Throndir telling him a story. He laughs and exclaims and gives thoughtful hums, his own voice adding a pleasant punctuation to Throndir’s words. It isn’t long before Throndir finds himself leaning his head against Red Jack’s shoulder so that, when Red Jack laughs, he can _feel_ it in his body, not as an echo of Kindrali, but as something that’s _his_.

Throndir doesn’t ever want to move from this place. But soon, the sun begins to set and Throndir remembers that he has first watch for the night.

“It’s too dark to read the next one,” Throndir murmurs apologetically.

“When can we read the rest?”

“Same time tomorrow?”

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow.” Red Jack’s face is flushed—whereas Throndir had grown weary throughout the reading, Red Jack seems more energetic than ever.  But his voice is soft when he adds, “Thank you, Throndir.”

After hours of storytelling, a soft and easy space lingers between them. It is suddenly easy for Throndir to press a quick kiss to Red Jack’s arm. In response, Red Jack gives Throndir that warm, open smile, but otherwise doesn’t make a move, seemingly content to let Throndir set the pace.

Throndir understands why, now. He remembers his last Kindrali vision. Letting others set the pace is perhaps the only option when you’re so used to being around creatures whose pace—whose very lifespan—is so much slower than yours could ever be.

They continue like this for several days. Throndir’s voice grows stronger as he practices reading, he grows bolder and sillier with the different character voices he tries, and he continues to lean his head against Red Jack’s arm. More often than not, however, Throndir ends up falling asleep on Red Jack’s shoulder and then waking up in Red Jack’s arms as he’s being carried to his bed or his watch station.

It is a feeling of security that Throndir is unused to: one that doesn’t seem real, that doesn’t seem like it could possibly exist in the world they live in.

But Throndir has never cared for supposed possibilities or impossibilities. He finds his comfort in the realm of the concrete: where Kodiak’s fur grounds him, where his bow does a vicious work, and where Red Jack’s laugh makes him smile.

And, god help him, Throndir cannot help but _smile_ at Red Jack’s reactions to the stories: his booming laughter, his delighted grins, his repeated corrections.

“No, that’s not how that one happened,” Red Jack interrupts, for the third time that session.

“It’s a _fairy tale_.”

“That doesn’t mean that it didn’t _happen_. I met the Last Dragonslayer, you know. They were _not_ as tall as they make themself out to be in this.”

Throndir snorts. “You’re telling me that they slayed a dragon, but still felt the need to exaggerate their _height_?”

“We all have our insecurities. You laugh now, but perhaps one day you’ll petition for a larger height in the tales they’ll tell of you? Ha ha ha.”

Throndir can’t help but laugh at the thought. He’s just a guy from _Auniq_ —he can’t imagine _tales_ being told of him.

Though, he supposes…if they _do_ beat the Heat and the Dark, then that will be something worth writing down.

“Nah,” Throndir says. “I’m okay with being a bit short.”

“Then what would you have them exaggerate?”

Throndir has to think about it for a moment, but Red Jack gives him that time. The world may be ending, but there always seems to be time: when he’s resting his head on Red Jack’s shoulder.

 “I guess the obvious answer is the justice I carried out,” Throndir says. “But…”

“But?”

“But I could stand for them exaggerating my ears a bit,” Throndir says, pulling self-consciously at the tips of ears that have always been considered short by snow elf standards. “What about you?”

Red Jack grins. “Throndir, there are _already_ tales about me. And they already stretch the truth a bit.”

“Oh, only a bit?” Throndir teases. “Don’t tell me you’re not as strong as those old stories make you out to be.”

“Stronger, actually,” Red Jack says. Though his tone is also teasing, his sharp teeth still flash, and. Yeah, Throndir can see how no folktale could quite capture Red Jack’s essence.

“People tend to like the violent stories,” Red Jack continues, “—and I do as well, haha. But I wouldn’t mind if there were also a story about how good a drink I can make.”

“I’ll tell them,” Throndir insists, face flushing when his voice comes out louder than he’d intended. “I’ll tell people about the drinks that you you’ve made and the people you’ve made laugh and…” _and the dances you’ve had, and the way you once made an old god feel, and the way you still make_ ** _me_** _feel._

Red Jack laughs, and it’s kind in a way that the stories about him have never even tried to capture.

“And I’ll tell them about the ranger I met,” Red Jack promises in return. “The one with the righteous blade and the tender heart.” He smirks. “And the long ears, of course.”

Those same ears burn under the intensity of Red Jack’s gaze. Throndir’s head swims with folktales, with an old god’s memories, with his very own longing: all of it coalescing into the whole of the man that is Red Jack.

“I wanted to wait until I was done reading this to say it,” Throndir says, closing the book. “But, well, we’ve established that I’m not good at waiting.”

“Good,” Red Jack says, leaning closer. “I think we’re both a bit tired of it by now, eh?”

“I think everyone in the University is probably tired of it,” Throndir says, thinking of Ephrim’s comment about being sick of their pining. “Red Jack…I don’t care much about the stories they’ll tell of me, if they even tell any at all. _I_ know what I’ve done and what I’ll do. I don’t care what they say about my ears or my blade or any of that stuff.”

“Then what do you care about?”

Throndir takes a deep breath. “I care that, when they tell stories of us…they place us side-by-side.”

Red Jack’s grin is blinding, as if Throndir had said something brilliant, rather than just finally giving words to the things he’s been feeling for months.

“They will,” Red Jack says. “I’ll make sure of it.”

He cups Throndir’s face in his hands and pulls them together for a kiss. It’s not gentle—but Throndir doesn’t _want_ gentle, not after so long of waiting. Red Jack’s fangs prick his lips and Throndir’s beard scratches against Red Jack’s face. It’s a laughable first kiss, if not for the fact that they have been waiting so long just to have it—that, in itself, makes it _exquisite._

They make their way toward Red Jack’s bedroom, the two of them grinning and laughing as they undress each other, as they move against each other so happily and so easily. After all, for them, the moving has always been the easy part. Now that they’ve finally come together, it is such a simple matter to move and kiss and sigh until they find what each other likes best.

“I know I said that I wanted us together in the stories they tell,” Throndir says, gasping when Red Jack presses quick, hot kisses to his ear. “But, I’m gonna be honest, I don’t know how those stories can ever live to the real thing if they leave out _this._ ”

“They can’t,” Red Jack assures him, murmuring against his ear. When he grins, Throndir can feel his fangs graze his cheek. “But who ever said I would be leaving this out of those stories? This part is vital to telling them how long your ears are.”

Red Jack nips Throndir’s ear. Throndir groans and pulls Red Jack’s face toward him so that it meets Throndir’s own.

“Red Jack,” Throndir breathes against the oni's lips, sighing happily when Red Jack gives a soft chuckle of “Throndir” in return.

It takes barely a tilt of Throndir’s head for their lips to fully meet in a kiss. Red Jack’s lips are soft and hot against his own, and when they finally pull away, Throndir’s head is swimming: not with memories or stories this time, but with the warmth and force and love of the man in front of him.

 


End file.
